


Angel of God, my Guardian dear

by savorvrymoment



Category: Captain America (Movies), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon-Typical Violence, Forgiveness, Internalized Homophobia, Love Conquers All, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Religious Discussion, brief mention of rape, brief mention of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-06-28 08:57:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19808986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savorvrymoment/pseuds/savorvrymoment
Summary: Meanwhile, the angel sighs, soft hands brushing through Bucky’s hair.  “Oh, don’t say such things about yourself.  You are beautifully human.  Dear boy, would you look up at me?”The angel has to encourage him further with his hands, but Bucky eventually does meet the other’s gaze.  He has a cherubic face and soft, aqua blue eyes.  His gentle smile is comforting and heartrending all at once.  “Please forgive me,” Bucky begs.  “Please, Lord, forgive me…”“Shh…  You know something?  You remind me of a friend of mine,” the angel tells him.  “He was a great and righteous warrior.  He stood for goodness and passion and devotion.  But he happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, and he fell from a great height…”“You’re so very funny, Angel,” Crowley interrupts.  Though Bucky doesn’t look away from the kind face in front of him.“They tried to burn away his spirit and his light and his love.  But they failed,” the angel continues.  “He was too strong of heart to truly be broken.”





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, just over here writing a crossover of my two current obsessions lol. Partially inspired by [Grace Can Be Found In Unlikely Places](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19227175) by Cymry. One more part coming that I'll hopefully have up by the end of the month.
> 
> BTW, if you're here for M-rated Aziraphale/Crowley smut, this isn't it. Sorry! Rating is for violence, explicit discussions, and some Bucky/Steve smut.

It’s been years…

Years of peace and quiet. Of mornings watching Steve paint in their shared Brooklyn apartment and evenings making love in their king-sized bed. Of reminiscing on old times and finding his favorites of the new. Of books and movies and good food. Of Steve’s laughter ringing in his ears.

Of weekly afternoon therapy appointments. Of feeling safe enough to cry and learning to smile again. Of Steve’s warm body sleeping next to him at night, a silent sort of forgiveness. A silent sort of acceptance. A silent sort of security.

Of no Hydra.

And then London explodes into gunfire, and shouts of ‘Heil Hydra’ are heard in the British streets.

~*~

Steve’s angry with him, Bucky can tell. He’s been angry since they lifted off the top of Stark Tower, Bucky plowing onto the quinjet despite Steve’s protests. _You haven’t been in the field in three years_ , Steve said to him. _When was the last time you even held a gun?_ Steve said to him. _This isn’t your fight anymore…_

Which just pissed Bucky off more. _How can you say that?_ Bucky demanded. _This is Hydra, this is my damn **war** ,_ Bucky said. _And don’t talk to me about being out of practice, you barely even pick up the shield anymore…_

They’ve hardly spoken since that argument, nothing aside from necessities. Steve’s plans and commands, and Bucky’s check-ins and confirmations. Bucky wants to argue with Steve’s orders just to be contrary, but Steve is the consummate leader as always. Bucky can’t come up with anything to be contradictory about, not without putting them all at risk.

Thor is with them, above them on the rooftops, as well as the Valkyrie. T’Challa and several of his best soldiers have met up with them from Wakanda and are doing their best to evacuate buildings. And Peter is, well... Peter is getting yelled at by Steve to stay safe.

Bucky himself is following Steve through the streets of London, Soho. The activity seems to be centered here, and the deeper they go, the more men they find. Bucky’s heart is beginning to beat an unsteady staccato in his chest.

It’s dangerous here. There is gunfire coming from every direction, Hydra agents tucked into corners and inside buildings and shooting through windows. He wishes he’d apologized to Steve, given the man a last _'I love you'_ before they’d stepped off the quinjet into the fray. 

Suddenly, a door opens on their left. Several agents run out, seemingly terrified, and Bucky raises his assault weapon and fires on instinct. They fall one after another, and then a middle-aged, pudgy blond man follows after. Bucky stays his hand—the man’s unarmed and dressed like a civilian. Threat level minimal. 

Though Bucky has one of those moments of dèja vu, struck with a strange sort of half-memory. He swears his dad wore a similar style back when he was a child. He can see himself standing on the front walk, looking up at his father. His father was wearing a knee-length coat and pressed slacks, a button-down vest and bowtie.

He hears Steve yelling at the civilian to get back inside, that it’s not safe, though Bucky’s stuck in a confused fog. He lingers for too long, frowning at the blond man, and gets shot in the shoulder and the hip. He goes down with a shout of pain and rolls to cover behind an abandoned vehicle.

He hears Steve’s panicked yell for him. And at the same time, he hears another voice call, “Alright, you monsters, I’ve grown quite tired of this.”

There’s a flash of bright light and an echoing noise. Unparalleled power bursts through the street, upending cars and toppling streetlamps and shattering windows. Bucky’s thrown backward, hurtling through the air before impacting with the pavement then rolling. He hears more than feels his bones break, then lies shocked in the middle of the road once he comes to a rest. 

The first thing he thinks is, **_Steve_**.

“Steve,” he tries to say, but the only thing that passes his lips is a wheezing breath. Blood trails from his mouth down his chin, and he rolls himself from his back onto his front in order to cough, spit, then look around.

The street appears as though a tornado has ripped through it. Debris is everywhere, and the dead bodies of Hydra agents lie scattered across the pavement. “Steve!” Bucky tries to yell again, but he only manages to heave up blood onto the concrete underneath him.

Bucky tries to lift a hand to wipe the dirt and grit and blood from his eyes, but lifting his right arm causes blinding pain to lance through him. Then, he finds he can’t move or feel the robotic arm at all. So he blinks and squints, trying to see if he can distinguish a red, white, and blue suit out of the mess of bodies on the street; hoping beyond hope he’ll find Steve like himself, bloody and broken but still _alive_.

What catches his attention, though, is the _thing_ moving through the middle of the street. It is brighter than anything Bucky has ever seen—brighter than his memories of hot Brooklyn summers, brighter than Steve’s smile, brighter than the sun shining in the sky. It has wings, though how many Bucky can’t say. At one glance, Bucky sees six, but then he blinks and he sees ten, but then he blinks again and there are only two.

And the eyes… There are millions of them. On the thing’s body and on its wings and in the air around it. All in sapphire blues and emerald greens and infinite shades of ambers and topazes and rich obsidians. They move and blink out of time, in strange dissonance.

A flaming sword is brandished in one glowing hand.

Bucky lays his head back down. He’s dying, he decides. He’s hit his head on the pavement, and his already scrambled brains are leaking out his ears. He’s hallucinating. 

There are tears running down his face. Or maybe it’s just his blood.

**_Steve…_ **

“Steve,” he gasps out, wet and bloody. “Stevie, baby…”

The sound of wings beating breaks the stillness, and Bucky looks back up to see a deep darkness joining the brightness. It also has uncountable wings and innumerable eyes. Though its wings are an inky black, and its eyes are all a bright, yellow-gold. 

Bucky lays his head back down on the concrete and continues to cry.

A voice resounds in the quiet: “For fuckssake, Angel. What did you do?”

“Oh, my. Well… I didn’t mean to be _quite_ so destructive.”

“ _Quite_?”

“This skirmishing has been going on for hours. And these… These _cult humans_ keep bursting into my shop after my prophecy books. I just got a bit irritated—and where have _you_ been anyway?”

“I was in Paris getting _you_ those Encyclopedia volumes you wanted.”

“Oh, yes. That’s right. I forgot about that.”

“Oh? You’re welcome.”

“Oh, now, you know I appreciate everything you do for me, dearest.”

“I know.”

“I just assumed you would be back here once you heard about everything going topsy-turvy.”

“And here I am!”

There’s a long-suffering sigh in reply, and Bucky decides this is the weirdest hallucination he’s ever had. And he’s gotten stuck in real weird headspaces, had entire weeks after his escape from Hydra where he didn’t know fantasy from reality.

“Eh, Angel. Look at this one.”

“Is there one still alive? I _feel_ life here.”

“Nah, he’s gone. His neck’s broken. But look at his uniform, does it not look _very_ familiar?”

“ _Oh, no…_ ” The voice sounds heartbroken. No, worse than that; physically pained. “It’s that American man. The strong one from the War.”

“The one they dug up out of the Artic? Huh, I think you’re right.” There’s a soft chuckle. “Hnn, the Star-Spangled Man with the Plan. Do you remember that song?”

“Oh, good Lord. I’m afraid I do.”

It takes Bucky a Herculean effort—as a well a good, long couple minutes of rolling toward the voices and craning his neck—but then he can see them. The brightness and the darkness, but both coalesced into more human figures. 

The darkness is a tall man with a shock of red hair, two ebony black wings extending from his back. He’s squatting, staring down at a body on the ground, his wings draped across the pavement. The brightness stands just behind him and looks startlingly the same as the short, middle-aged man who’d stepped out onto the street moments before all this destruction. He has wings like his companion, though his are a pure, vibrant white.

And the body they’re looking at, the boots that are just visible from around the edge of blackened feathers; Bucky would recognize those boots anywhere…

 _No,_ Bucky thinks. _You can’t have him. You won’t take him, too._

Bucky cries out in agony as he fishes his sidearm from its holster, his vision going blurry from the pain. But he has to defend Steve from whatever these things are; he _has_ to. 

The two beings look toward him when he yells, but still Bucky fires his pistol. His hand is unsteady, though, and his vision is whiting-out from the pain. He only manages to catch the brightness once in the thigh.

The brightness flinches, though it seems more out of shock than pain. He looks down in distaste at the blood beginning to stain his pale trousers, and gripes, “Oh, good Lord…”

Meanwhile, his tall companion whirls away from Steve to face Bucky, and Bucky’s greeted again to millions of eyes and six black wings. Bucky sobs in terror and fires his weapon once more, twice more, though the bullets just disappear into the air. And then the gun falls from his hand of its own accord.

“Crowley, no,” the brightness says, reaching his hand out for the other creature. “Look at him, _see_ him. He’s not trying to hurt us; he’s trying to protect his beloved. He doesn’t understand.”

The other creature—this Crowley—dissolves slowly back into the tall redhaired man. The two wings still extend from his back, and they stretch gracefully toward the sky before relaxing back onto the pavement. 

“Oh, dear, he is incredibly…” the brightness murmurs, stepping around the debris toward Bucky. He may appear human, not accounting for the wings, but there is a certain presence to him. A lingering otherworldliness, something strange and terrifying. Something that makes Bucky want to close his eyes and hide.

He tries to pull away when the brightness crouches down next to him, but he finds he can’t move. He’s in too much pain, and he can’t feel his legs. He’s breathing too heavily, hyperventilating, panicking in the face of this unknown and in his own vulnerability. He tries to reach for his pistol, the one that had fallen from his hand earlier; but the brightness takes it from him before Bucky can grab it.

“You’re not one of them, are you?” the brightness asks him. A soft, manicured hand touches his forehead, then brushes the sweaty hair out of his face. 

And somehow, with that one gentle touch, the blinding pain Bucky had been in moments earlier fades away into something bearable.

“I am so very sorry,” the being continues. “There were so many of you on the street, so many with weapons.”

“He’s paralyzed, Angel,” the darkness speaks up. 

“Yes, I see. I’ve got him.”

The brightness leans over Bucky and lays hands on his back. There’s a crack, accompanied by a sharp, devastating pain through his spine and down his legs. Bucky cries out in hurt and fear, then feels a gentle hand brushing his hair back and wiping the tears from his eyes. The brightness shushes him. 

Through the fog of confusion, he hears Steve yell. The man sounds as though he’s in agony, but he also sounds terrified. It lights something in the pit of Bucky’s stomach, sends him struggling against the pavement and the creature holding him down.

He has to get to Steve…

“Oh, oh, no,” the blond says. “You need to stay down. You’re still not well, and I’ve already… Well, you see, there are only so many miracles I can get away with at one time!”

“He’s trying to get to this one,” Crowley says. “Plus, you tossed them both halfway through Soho, you know. They’re a bit… addled.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” the brightness says with a sigh. “This one must be like that American, there. A lesser human wouldn’t have survived.”

Bucky manages to twist enough to get a good look past the mess of white wings, enough to see Crowley kneeling next to Steve’s writhing body. Crowley’s two black wings seem to cradle Steve, sheltering him from the destruction around them.

 _Angel_ , Crowley had called the brightness—such exquisite light, white wings, millions of eyes…

Steve’s Ma used to pray during the long nights when Steve lay ill, sweating with fever and wheezing for breath, at times barely clinging to life. Bucky would recite the prayers with her, even though he was not Catholic. Even though his own family celebrated Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur…

And for some reason, he can’t remember any of the prayers his own Ma had said. But he can hear Ms. Sarah’s voice in his head clear as day…

 _Angel of God, my Guardian dear,_  
_to whom His love commits me here,_  
_Ever this day be at my side_  
_to light and guard, to rule and guide_

“Shh, dear boy, it’s alright,” the angel says, soft hands back on Bucky’s face. “You’ve been through quite a lot, haven’t you?”

He doesn’t realize he’s rattling off the prayer aloud until he hears his own voice as though through an echo, as though outside his own body. “…to whom His love commits me here…”

“Could you shut that one up?” Crowley snaps. “Mr. America over here is yanking my feathers out trying to get to him. Oh, fuck it, I’m knocking him back out, he’s too strong.”

Bucky hears Steve go quiet, and he cranes his head enough to see that Steve has gone still. “No, no, no,” he whines out, breathless. There’s blood still on his face, blood in his mouth. He has to pause and spit. “Please don’t hurt him,” he manages, not daring to look up at the angel. He’s not worthy of looking up at such holiness.

“Shh,” the angel shushes him again. “We’re not going to hurt anyone.”

But this is not true; Bucky isn’t stupid. They’ve already leveled this entire street. “Take me instead,” Bucky begs. “He’s good. He doesn’t deserve to be hurt. I’m bad. I’m… I’m spoiled. Take me, punish me.”

“For Heaven’s—Hell’s sake,” Crowley says, exasperated. “We’re not ‘punishing’ anyone!”

Meanwhile, the angel sighs, soft hands brushing through Bucky’s hair. “Oh, don’t say such things about yourself. You are beautifully human. Dear boy, would you look up at me?”

The angel has to encourage him further with his hands, but Bucky eventually does meet the other’s gaze. He has a cherubic face and soft, aqua blue eyes. His gentle smile is comforting and heartrending all at once. “Please forgive me,” Bucky begs. “Please, Lord, forgive me…”

“Shh… You know something? You remind me of a friend of mine,” the angel tells him. “He was a great and righteous warrior. He stood for goodness and passion and devotion. But he happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, and he fell from a great height…”

“You’re so very funny, Angel,” Crowley interrupts. Though Bucky doesn’t look away from the kind face in front of him.

“They tried to burn away his spirit and his light and his love. But they failed,” the angel continues. “He was too strong of heart to truly be broken.”

“How do you…?” Bucky asks, but then he supposes that if this creature really is an angel, asking how he knows all this is probably a stupid question. Instead, he repeats, “Please, please forgive me.”

“You’ve already found forgiveness from those who matter,” the angel tells him, glancing away toward Steve. “But if it will make you feel better to hear it from me, then… I forgive you.”

Bucky sobs openly, though he’s not entirely sure he ever stopped in the first place.

“Now sleep,” the angel tells him. “Your people will find you soon.”

There are sirens in the distance. Bucky suddenly feels very heavy, bone-tired. He relaxes into the pavement, unsure why he was ever upset or scared in the first place.

“Come on, Angel,” a voice says. “Time to go.”

Bucky is unconscious before the two creatures disappear in a flutter of black and white wings.

~*~

He wakes in Wakanda’s advanced research and medical facility, in the exact same room they’d laid him down in years ago after bringing out of cryo. There’s an off-color tile in the ceiling that he recognizes; and he stares at it for a long time once he’s awake, trying to piece together a puzzle.

He was on a quinjet with Steve. They were arguing. Steve was angry, and Bucky was irritated in turn. But there were more important matters; there was _Hydra_. Bucky was following at Steve’s six, and they were wading through wave after wave of armed agents in search of their source, any leads that may point them toward a commander or senior officer. And then…

And then…

Bucky doesn’t know. Bucky doesn’t remember.

He feels like he should probably be panicking because of this. After all, there’s a _gap_ in his memory. Just like there always was _before_ ; wide and telling gaps whenever there were things he didn’t need to remember. Whenever someone decided he wasn’t _supposed_ to remember. 

But he’s very tired. There’s a deep sort of ache through his lower back, his thighs, and his shoulders. He feels as though he’s overextended himself, as though he’s been running for days; only to have gotten hit by a speeding train at the end of that run. 

The bed he’s in is soft. More comfortable than any hospital bed has a right to be. He’s wearing a hospital gown—and only a hospital gown—and he’s tucked in under the sheets, warm and safe. The nurses who flit in and out of the room keep flirting with him and Steve…

Steve: who is in his own bed on the opposite side of the room. The man’s got a hell of a shiner, plus a torn rotator cuff that’s already healing on its own. But he’s fine, he’s safe, he’s alive. They’ve already made up from their earlier fight on the quinjet, and when they’re not napping, they’re resorting to dumb games like _I Spy_ and _20 Questions_.

Bucky’s robotic arm is damaged, but Shuri’s assured him that she’s working on it, that she’ll have it back to him in a day or two. Which Bucky suspects actually means before the end of the night. But the Wakandan doctor who’s seeing to him and Steve says they sustained head injuries in the field—most likely the reason _neither_ of them can remember what rendered them unconscious for British EMS to find in the middle of the road. 

They’ve been ordered to stay in bed for at least a couple of days, until their MRIs and CTs are normal. Then they can fly back to America, to their Brooklyn RedStone. And yes, Bucky’s anxious to get back home to their cozy little lovenest, but he’s okay here for now. Steve is safe, they’re both being cared for by the world’s best medical personnel, and there hasn’t been any sign of Hydra since the attack in London. 

Things are okay, Bucky thinks. Things are definitely okay.

~*~

The dreams start two weeks after they’ve returned home.

In his sleep, Bucky sees wings and a thousand eyes and a flaming sword. The eyes are staring down at him, coming closer and closer. The wings flutter, the sword raises over his head, and then…

“Bucky? Bucky! Baby, wake up, wake up…”

He wakes up screaming and fighting, but this is an old game. Granted, he and Steve haven’t played it in a long time, but Steve restrains him as easily as he did in the past, without either of them getting hurt. Bucky heaves for breath, then feels tears begin to leak from his eyes, rolling silently down his cheeks.

“Buck…” Steve wipes Bucky’s cheeks with his thumbs. “You wanna talk about it?”

Bucky shakes his head, no.

Steve sighs, dropping a hand to Bucky’s shoulder. “That hasn’t happened in a long time.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky answers, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell him it wasn’t about Hydra. It wasn’t about the torture, or the killing, or the confusion. It was just some random nightmare.

A random nightmare that somehow seems… _so real._

“I think I’m gonna…” Bucky says, sitting up and then climbing out of bed. “Think I’m gonna get a drink of water. Maybe make some decaf.”

“Chamomile’ll be more relaxing,” Steve suggests gently.

“I know,” Bucky answers, stretching his sore muscles as he stands. He must have been struggling in his sleep; he feels like he’s twisted his back. “But I like coffee better.”

“I know you do,” Steve says with a soft laugh and a gentle smile. “You bringing it back to bed? Or you want me to join you?”

“You stay,” Bucky says. “I’ll be back soon enough.”

Steve looks like he wants to argue, staying propped up on his elbow and watching Bucky intently. But he eventually relents, “Alright. I love you, you know that, right?”

Bucky smiles and answers, “Yeah, and I love you, too. Punk.”

~*~

The nightmares don’t stop.

After that first night, Bucky sort of hoped it was just a fluke. But he should have known better. He never manages to be that lucky.

The dreams don’t stay simple, either. Not to say that eyes and wings and a sword is simple, but a dream about an eldritch monster is fairly modest in comparison to some of Bucky’s past nightmares. In fact, if given a choice between reliving his past traumas in vivid horrific detail, and imagining a monster coming to kill him, he’ll take the monster every time. 

However, the monster morphs in his dreams into something that is a man but isn’t a man; a humanoid being with bright crystal blue eyes, six feathery white wings, and a shining aura too brilliant to look into. He sits by Bucky’s side, the flaming sword still held in his hand, and watches Bucky with something like gloried purpose.

And Bucky trembles in terror.

Sometimes, the angelic, holy creature is joined by something else much less so. It has golden eyes with slitted pupils, six pitch-black wings, and aura so deep and dark Bucky fears he will be sucked into it. This one sits by Bucky’s side and watches with something like compassion and understanding.

And Bucky trembles in terror.

At first, neither of the creatures speak to him in his dreams. But then one night, the bright and holy one says to him, “You’ve been through quite a lot, haven’t you?”

Bucky sobs, and begs, “Please forgive me. I’ve sinned. Oh God, how I’ve sinned…”

“I like this one,” the dark one says. “He takes the Lord’s name in vain while he’s asking for forgiveness.”

The holy one—the angel, because he has to be an angel. Bucky doesn’t know what else he could be—scoffs at his companion. “His guilt still weighs heavy on his soul,” the angel says. “Don't harass him.”

The dark one sighs, then meets Bucky’s gaze. The creature’s eyes shine with amusement. “So, you’re a sinner. All humans are,” he says. “That was kinda my fault. In a weird way. I didn’t realize you guys would _like_ it so much, but—hey, we all make mistakes.”

 _A demon?_ Bucky wonders, staring back at serpentine eyes. 

“But I—I’ve done worse… I’m unforgivable,” Bucky tells them, the angel and the demon. “I’m a murderer, a torturer, a rapist, a liar, a sodomite…”

“That’s quite the list you have there,” the demon says. “Do you need to write it down, so you remember?”

The angel ignores his companion and instead tells Bucky, “A murder committed under oppression is a sin on the one who ordered it, not the one who carried out the order. The same can be said for the torture and rape you committed.”

“No one… No one _oppressed_ me.” This is a lie. He is lying to an angel. Because he is a _sinner_. “I did it gladly.”

“Why, though?” the demon asks him.

“Because obeying kept you safe. Kept you fed and hydrated and healthy. Kept you from being tortured yourself. Kept you alive,” the angel tells him.

“They’d stripped your humanity from you. There was no good or evil, hmm?” the demon says. “Without that, you’re left with only survival.”

“Mmhm,” the angel agrees with a nod. 

But Bucky just shakes his head and murmurs, “Please forgive me.”

He wakes up shaking and crying, and Steve begs him to tell him what happened, to please talk to him. But Bucky can’t tell him, because he’s hardly sure he understands himself.

They’re just dreams, he tells himself. They’re not real. He doesn’t need to be afraid.

Yet there’s something eerily familiar about the color of the angel’s eyes and the sound of the demon’s voice.

~*~

“Where were we, last time?” the angel asks him next time he sleeps.

“Sinning, and all that,” the demon answers.

Bucky groans, and shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry. Forgive me…”

“Oh, dear boy, I thought we went over this last time,” the angel says.

“We only covered—what? Mmm, half of his list?” the demon says.

“True,” the angel replies, musing.

“You’re a liar,” the demon accuses, pointing at Bucky. Then he shrugs, and says, “But everyone lies. You're not special.”

“You’re beautifully human,” the angel says, nodding. “Even your brave Captain is not immune, you know. He tells white lies to please others. And he has been consumed with wrath on occasion…”

“And lust. Sodomy,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “I led him astray. I made him _impure_.”

The demon chuckles. “You did not _lead_ him anywhere. He is not exactly an unwilling participant in your lustful activities.”

“Oh, please,” the angel says, scoffing at the demon. “These activities, they are not _lustful_.”

“You don’t know what we do,” Bucky says. Which is stupid. He’s speaking to an angel.

The angel smiles at him, and says, “I’m a part of your mind. I know exactly what you do. But the spark he lights inside of you isn’t lust. When you go to bed with him, it isn’t an act of iniquity. And deep down, you know this.”

The demon says nothing, but his expression has softened into something knowing and empathetic. 

“Humans were made to love, and many ways were made to experience and express love,” the angel tells him. “Sharing yourselves with each other physically is a beautiful way of doing both, don’t you think?”

Bucky’s afraid to answer, but the demon speaks up, “Yes, it certainly is, Angel.”

“So why don’t you go back?” the angel suggests. “Share yourself with him…”

“Go, Bucky.”

“Buck?”

Bucky wakes up shaking and sweating, Steve’s hand resting on his flesh forearm. The man’s hand is warm and callused, familiar. When Bucky turns his head on the pillow to meet Steve’s gaze, he finds worried blue eyes watching him intently. Bucky sighs, and murmurs, “Sorry. Did I wake you up again?”

“S’alright,” Steve says. “I just worry. That’s every night this week.”

Bucky takes a deep breath, holds it for a beat, then lets it out. The dream is still vivid, and what the angel had said is shining inside of him. He remembers it clearly:

_Humans were made to love, and many ways were made to experience and express love._

Suddenly, Bucky aches for Steve’s touch. It’s been a while since they’ve made love. Not since his nightmares started. They usually don’t go this long without a little something, even if it’s just some necking and a rub under the sheets. 

“Steve,” Bucky murmurs, reaching over to cup Steve’s cheek. Steve frowns in concern but leans into Bucky’s palm all the same. Bucky continues, “Was dreaming about you, Steve.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks. “What, did something happen to me?”

“I—.” _I don’t know, maybe?_ But he swallows back this strange uncertainty and lets his hand stray down to massage the back of Steve’s neck. “I want you,” he murmurs.

“Mmm, you sure?” Steve says, leaning in. “Was it _that_ kinda dream? Didn’t seem like it—I know what that kinda dream sounds like…”

“Oh, you know that, huh?” Bucky teases, finding himself smiling.

“Yeah,” Steve says, easing a bit closer. He brushes Bucky’s hair out of his face and steals a quick kiss, then adds, “They sound the same now as they did back in the 30’s.”

Bucky can’t help but laugh at that. He runs a hand gently down Steve’s side, feeling that familiar heat begin to slide low in his belly. “Yeah?” he says. “And what does that sound like?”

“Oh, you don’t say anything,” Steve says. “But there’s a lot of grunting and happy mmm’ing. It’s very cute.”

“Cute?” Bucky asks, before Steve leans in for a long, slow kiss.

“Well, yeah, it’s cute; until you start pitching a tent, or poking me in the hip,” Steve says, grinning against his lips. “Then it becomes less cute and more… Mouthwatering.”

“Listen to that. If America could only hear their Captain now,” Bucky teases. “Calling a Russian dick ‘mouthwatering’.”

“Firstly, it’s definitely an American dick,” Steve says, pushing the covers down in order to swing a leg over and straddle Bucky’s hips. “And secondly, it’s attached to the only person I ever been with—the man I’m in love with. And if that doesn’t exemplify the ‘American moral standard’, then I dunno what does.”

And Bucky wants to point out that millions of Christians would probably riot in the street if they found out their beloved Captain America was dicking down another man on the regular, regardless of the circumstances. But he can only grin softly in the face of Steve’s clear adoration.

It was one of the first memories that came back to him in clear detail: the night they’d lost their virginities together, clumsy and scared and so in love. It was a special memory, fragile and so _good_. Then a couple days later, Bucky remembered crying afterward and trying to hide his tears from Steve. But he’d been so confused and ashamed by his own desires; men weren’t supposed to feel like that about their best guy friends.

In Bucharest, he wrote everything down in his little notebook, afraid that the memories flashing into his head would leave just as quickly. He never expected in those moments that this Steve figure he was slowly putting together, this man he apparently loved, would eventually come along and read every word he’d written down. At least it gave them the opportunity to talk about these things.

Now, Steve’s told Bucky he feels guilt, too. But that was their generation. Today’s society is different. Now, love is love.

Their lovemaking is more comfortable now than Bucky remembers from before. He doesn’t know why, though he thinks a lot of it is what they’ve gone through. They’ve both matured and relaxed into each other. Bucky still feels shame, but _God,_ he loves. Does he ever love. And after everything else that’s happened to them, after being ripped apart and brought together again so many times…

_But the spark he lights inside of you isn’t lust. When you go to bed with him, it isn’t an act of iniquity. And deep down, you know this._

They don’t ‘go all the way’ that night, as the kids are saying these days. They make love to each other with their lips and tongues and the wet of their mouths, and they murmur sweet words of love and praise to each other. Bucky loves the feel of Steve in his mouth, heavy and throbbing on his tongue, while Steve tells him how gorgeous he is and how good he feels…

And how much he loves Bucky.

He dozes off afterward in Steve’s arms, warm and happy and sated, and sleeps the rest of the night through in a dreamless slumber. 


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in finishing this. I kind of hit a writer's block in the middle of this part; I'm sure you know how that is. I'm still not 100% happy with it, but it's finished and I'm done agonizing over it. I'm sure you know how that is, too, lol.
> 
> Regardless, I hope you enjoy. This was such a fun idea to explore. Comments and kudos are appreciated!

“Well, last night was fun, was it not?” Crowley asks him the next time he sleeps.

Bucky meets the demon’s eerie golden eyes. His black wings stretch up toward the sky, then relax into the nothingness of the dream. Bucky counters his stupid question with, “Why are you here? Why am _I_ here?”

“You’re trying to remember, you see,” the angel says from his other side. Bucky turns to look at him and his kind blue eyes. “You’ve forgotten something significant.”

“You’re processing what happened to you,” the demon adds. “But you know this already, don’t you? You’ve forgotten before, then remembered, only to forget and remember again. Your neural pathways heal quickly.”

“A lesser human wouldn’t have survived,” the angel says.

“Well, I’m still here,” Bucky replies with a frown. “Can you…? Can’t you just tell me?”

“Tell you what?” the demon asks.

“Tell me what I forgot.”

“You haven’t remembered yet,” the angel says. “So I can’t tell you.”

“That-what?” Bucky says. “That doesn’t make sense… I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“We’re only parts of your mind,” the demon says. “Like my Angel said, you’re trying to remember.”

The angel nods. “You’re healing. Everything will eventually come back to you. It’s the way you’ve been made.”

“But, why can’t you just tell me?” Bucky says. He’s aware that he’s whining, but he doesn’t care. He’s confused and frustrated, and it’s same thing night after night. The angel and the demon watching him. His sleep is never restful.

“Because you already know,” the angel says. “You just need to remember.”

Bucky wants to sob.

“Let me demonstrate,” the demon says, leaning forward. “You know my name, yes?”

“Crowley,” Bucky says. Then, gesturing to the angel, “He called you Crowley.”

“Mmhm,” Crowley agrees. “But, what is the angel’s name?”

Bucky opens his mouth to answer, but then realizes, “I don’t remember.”

“No,” Crowley says, leaning forward into Bucky’s face. Bucky wonders if anyone has ever drowned in this creature’s eyes. They’re hypnotizing.

_“You never knew his name in the first place…”_

Bucky wakes quietly for once, blinking up at the ceiling. It takes him a few moments to orient himself, feeling as if he’s been crawling his way out of that dreamspace for hours, but one thing becomes clear to him fast…

He’s in the bed alone.

Steve often wakes earlier than Bucky to go on his morning runs, but the alarm clock by the side of the bed reads 2AM. It’s far too early for Steve to be awake. Their bedroom door is opened just a crack, and a strip of light shines through from out in the kitchen. So Bucky sits up in the bed, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders, then ventures out to see what Steve is up to.

He finds the man sitting at the kitchen bar, hands wrapped around a mug of tea and his head ducked down between his shoulders. It’s his _I’m having a bad night_ pose, and Bucky’s heart hurts for him. 

“Hey, you,” Bucky murmurs, coming around to sit down next to Steve.

Steve looks over and gives him a tight smile. “Hey, you,” he parrots, and leans to the side so they bump shoulders. “Sorry, did I wake you up puttering around out here?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nah, just woke up and realized you weren’t there,” he answers, the chuckles. “Wow, that was a pretty sappy thing to say…”

“Yeah, it was,” Steve agrees, but if the way his smile softens is any indication, he’s enjoying the sap.

They descend into comfortable silence for a few moments, before Bucky finally asks, “You have a bad dream?”

Steve nods. “Yeah, I think your nightmares have rubbed off on me,” he says with a chuckle. “Among other things.”

“Oh, haha. You’re so funny,” Bucky says, dry. Steve just grins at him. But the man still looks tired and a little haunted, so Bucky offers, “You wanna talk about it?”

Steve’s not always into the whole heart-to-heart experience, but if he does feel the need to talk, it’s Bucky he goes to. It’s a privilege, Bucky thinks, to be held in such confidence. 

But he’s not sure whether Steve will answer, and he takes the lingering silence in stride. It’s unsurprising. He figures he’ll just sit with Steve until the man is ready to go back to bed.

Then Steve says, “It wasn’t about the War, or finding you… You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

“No, I won’t,” Bucky says. “It was a dream, crazy stuff happens.”

“Hell, crazy stuff _actually_ happens to us. For real,” Steve says. “Aliens, robots, talking animals…”

 _You got no idea_ , Bucky thinks, nodding.

“But I—," Steve begins, then stalls, taking a sip of his tea. Finally, he admits, “I saw these eyes staring at me. They were so close, right in my face. And they were so creepy—not human.”

Bucky’s stomach sinks to his toes. “How many eyes were there?” he asks.

“What? Only the two,” Steve answers, frowning. “Why?”

“Uhm,” Bucky starts, but sidetracks, “What did the eyes look like? You said not human…”

“Yeah, they were this bright gold color. Except the pupil wasn’t just a black circle, it was this line. Vertical.” Steve continues to frown. “Why?”

“Nothing. No reason,” Bucky answers, even as his heart is beating overtime. And he’s starting to sweat. “That is pretty weird, though.”

Steve calls him out, though. “You’re not telling me something.”

Over seventy-years as an assassin and a spy, and Bucky still can’t convincingly lie to this man. He can fool anyone and everyone else, but Steve’s the only one who knew him _before_. He knows all Bucky’s tells.

“Bucky, I thought…” Steve trails off, and his frown morphs into this look of quiet disappointment that breaks Bucky wide open. “I thought we've been honest. Thought we didn’t keep things from each other.”

“We are, we don’t,” Bucky assures him. Because he is honest, and he doesn’t keep things from Steve. 

When Bucky had first returned from Hydra, he’d often been afraid to express his thoughts and feelings, his wants and needs. After all, he’d been trained not to even _have_ these things; so telling Steve he was confused or upset. Or that he wanted to be held, or to have sex. Or hell, even that he was hungry, or needed a bathroom break. It was all unthinkable.

So to have come this far? Bucky can’t throw that away just because he’s scared— _even though_ he’s scared. He takes a breath, then admits, “Steve, I’ve seen those eyes, too.”

Steve doesn’t say anything at first. He seems too confused, as though unsure what question is the correct follow-up. Not that Bucky knows. Bucky knows _nothing_.

All he can offer is: “The dreams I’ve been having—he’s in them. He has those eyes. His name’s Crowley. He’s a demon, I think.”

“He’s a demon? Wait, what?” Steve says, brows furrowing. He pushes his cup of tea away and splays his hands across the table. “Okay, stop. _What_ is happening?”

So Bucky tells him. At least the best he knows how. He tells Steve how the dreams started, about the millions of eyes and the wings. About the angel too, about the light and the holiness and the flaming sword. And he rehashes some of what he remembers being said…

“I’ve been begging the angel for forgiveness,” Bucky says.

“Oh, Buck…” Steve breathes, sounding heartbroken, but Bucky holds up a hand.

“The angel has an answer for fucking everything, though,” Bucky says, then breaks out into laugh. “For fuckssake. I thought I was just talking to myself in my dreams, hallucinating kind of. I dunno…”

“What, do you think we’re actually…?” Steve asks, trailing off.

“No,” Bucky says, even though he doesn’t actually know. Could he actually be communicating with an angel and a demon in his sleep? Could that demon be trying to communicate with Steve as well? But why? God, is he _possessed_?! 

“But then why—why did I see those eyes, too?” Steve asks.

“I don’t know,” Bucky says.

“Do you think…?” Steve frowns, hesitating. “Do you think Hydra did something to us? I never saw this…”

“Don’t,” Bucky says, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes closed. “I can’t even think about that. That’s—no, just no.”

Steve doesn’t say anything else, but Bucky can tell the thought has taken hold of him. Hydra once looked to alien technology for power, so why not look to supernatural forces as well?

“Are angels and demon even real?” Bucky muses.

“We have dinner with a Norse god at least once a month,” Steve points out. “And you’re questioning angels and demons?”

Bucky sighs and rolls his eyes. “Fair enough.”

“That means…” Steve says, gaze wandering. There are very few of Steve’s expressions that Bucky has difficulty deciphering, but this one—this one is complex and far away. Steve finishes his thought, “That means Heaven is real. And Hell is real. _God_ is real.”

“Look, stop,” Bucky says, shaking his head and holding his hands up. “Don’t get too deep into all this. They’re dreams. Who knows what is actually happening, or if what we’re seeing is actually real?”

“Then why are we both seeing it?”

“Steve, I don’t know, I don’t have the answers,” Bucky says. He sighs again, then asks, feeling as though he’s treading on shaky ground, “I thought you believed in God. In all that stuff.”

Steve looks back, startled. “I did. _Do_. I…” He trails off, running a hand through messy hair. “I do, but then what does that mean for me? For us?”

“You? I think you’ll be fine,” Bucky says with a self-deprecating laugh.

Steve shakes his head. “Buck, I’ve killed. I’ve killed without thought when it came to you,” he says. Then, reaching out to take Bucky’s hand, “And then, _you_. I mean, I wouldn’t change this for anything; you’re everything to me. You know that. But…”

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. Then, “Well, according to the angel, everything is okay.”

“What?”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say, so he just leans over and kisses Steve on the lips. He tastes like chamomile and honey and so much love.

~*~

There are several more nights of abstract yet vivid dreams, where Bucky sits and talks with the angel and the demon. At least in an intangible sort of way. He knows he is speaking with them, he can even _see_ them, but they aren’t speaking so much as just communicating. Sharing and understanding.

Bucky asks for forgiveness again; he asks many times over. The angel always tells him he’s already been forgiven. The demon always reminds him that all humans sin.

 _You don’t need to keep looking for forgiveness_ , the angel says to him. _That wasn’t you, you did nothing wrong._

And it’s funny, because Bucky remembers Steve saying those exact words to him back when he was still struggling so deeply. He can remember being curled up in the corner of the shower, all the blood from all the years seemingly stained into his skin, openly sobbing and begging Steve to forgive him; _please please I don’t deserve it but please…_

Steve had climbed into the shower with him still dressed in his shirt and running sweats, kissed him on the cheeks and the forehead, and then said those exact words. _That wasn’t you, you didn’t nothing wrong._

Which is how Bucky begins to realize he is, in fact, _not_ actually speaking to an angel and demon in his sleep. But as he’s done a million times before, he’s remembering something. His mind is stringing together bits and pieces, and most of it is nonsensical. 

It’s what Bucharest had been like. Bits and pieces, figures and faces, voices and moments of conversations—not all of it even real. But all eventually strung together to _make_ something real. 

He wants to tell Steve this, but he’s afraid to. The implications alone are terrifying. Something’s happened to both of them that they don’t remember. The most comforting scenario is that they hit their heads hard enough in that fight that they don’t remember this angel and this demon—or whatever the hell they are, probably the latest Hydra science experiments.

This is less than reassuring, though.

Worst case scenario: something was done _to_ them by Hydra. To both him and Steve. Then they were both thrown in the chair so they would forget. Though when Bucky really thinks about it, it doesn’t make much sense. The chair was why Bucky forgot himself completely, so why does Bucky remember anything at all? Even more notably, why would Hydra let them go in the first place once they had them?

Maybe the angel and the demon had intervened?

Bucky wishes he would hurry up and just fucking _remember_.

And then he does remember…

He doesn’t remember in a dream, in the dark of the night; no, Bucky’s jarringly reminded, triggered into it. He doesn’t know why he’d been expecting anything else. Most of his early memories of _before_ had been brought back by a trigger.

Take Steve staring up at him and saying those words: _I’m with you ‘til the end of the line._ God, that had brought so much back, like whiplash.

This time, it’s combat that brings it all back.

He and Steve still like to spar sometimes, even though they’re technically no longer part of SHIELD. Steve still gets called in unofficially, so it’s important to stay sharp. And for Bucky, it’s just fun; he can admit to himself it’s exciting to throw Steve around a little, to get thrown around by Steve. Sort of like elaborate foreplay. 

Sometimes, if he’s not busy with other business, Thor will join them. Bucky likes when he does; he’s a thoroughly challenging opponent. While Bucky can go toe-to-toe with Steve using brute force alone, he’s far outmatched by the Norse god. Bucky has to strategize and rely on his agility when sparring him, or he ends up on his back on the mat within seconds. 

The kid joins them sometimes, too, though he’s more often than not busy with school or work. Peter’s fun, and his mouth reminds Bucky of Steve back when Steve was 90lbs soaking wet. Always sassy, always smart-alecky, always with the snappy comebacks. Whenever they see each other, he’s quick to remind Bucky about ‘that one time he kicked Bucky’s ass in an airport.’ 

Peter’s with them now, a Wednesday morning in late spring, and he’s facing off against Bucky while Steve sits on the sidelines with a bottle of water. The thing about sparring with the kid is how _quick_ the kid is. It would be one thing if Bucky didn’t hold back; he could just throw his arm out and down the kid while he’s doing his spider flips. And forget it if Bucky was carrying a knife or gun. 

They don’t fight to injure each other, though, only to put their opponents to the mat. Not that Bucky doesn’t go hard with both Steve and Thor, but Peter is a different story. It’s not that Bucky’s letting him win, no matter how much Peter complains to the contrary.

It’s just that the kid is, well, just a _kid_.

Which is why, at times, Peter will end up taking Bucky down, and taking him down _hard_. Harder than Bucky would like, and he’s sure harder than Peter intends. Still, when Peter swings down from the ceiling and catches Bucky square in the chest with the flats of his feet, it sends Bucky flying.

He has the momentary thought that he should have blocked with the arm; hell, Peter was probably expecting him to block. It wouldn’t have injured the kid, wouldn’t have broken any bones, but it sure would have hurt impacting with the metal like that. And Bucky doesn’t want to hurt Peter…

Then Bucky slams onto the floor at the edge of the mat, flat out on his back. The breath is knocked out of him, and he closes his eyes, wheezing. When he opens his eyes again, everything is a little blurry. He sees Steve and Peter running to him, kneeling down next to him.

“Bucky?” Steve says. “Hey, Buck, you with me?”

“Jesus, why didn’t you block?!” Peter squawks.

Except, for a moment, Bucky is on a London street. There’s a man with white-blond hair kneeling down next to him, and a man with dark hair peering over the blond man’s shoulders. The angel and the demon…

“I’m so very sorry. There were so many of you on the street, so many with weapons,” the angel says.

“He’s paralyzed, Angel,” the demon says.

“No, I’m fine,” Bucky tells them, dragging in a wheezing breath. He rolls to the side, trying to get up. 

“Oh, oh, no,” the angel says. “You need to stay down. You’re still not well, and I’ve already… Well, you see, there are only so many miracles I can get away with at one time!”

“He’s trying to get to this one,” the demon says. “Plus, you tossed them both halfway through Soho, you know. They’re a bit… addled.”

“Yes, yes, I know. This one must be like that American, there. A lesser human wouldn’t have survived.”

None of that makes any sense, Bucky thinks. Until he realizes he’s heard it all before.

“Shh… You know something? You remind me of a friend of mine,” the angel says. “He was a great and righteous warrior. He stood for goodness and passion and devotion. But he happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, and he fell from a great height…”

“You’re so very funny, Angel.”

“They tried to burn away his spirit and his light and his love. But they failed. He was too strong of heart to truly be broken.”

“You’ve already found forgiveness from those who matter. But if it will make you feel better to hear it from me, then… I forgive you.”

It feels like years have passed when Bucky comes back to himself, but it can only have been a couple of minutes at most. He’s still on the floor of the private gym, clutching the front of Steve’s shirt, sobbing and begging for forgiveness. Steve is shushing him, calmly threading his fingers though his hair, and when Bucky pulls away to look around them, he doesn’t see Peter anywhere.

“P-Peter?” Bucky asks, trying to calm his breathing. “What happened? Where…? Peter, I’m okay—you didn’t hurt me.”

“I sent him to get someone from medical,” Steve says, frowning. “I think you hit your head, Buck. You were talking, but you weren’t making any sense…”

“I remember,” Bucky says, reaching out for Steve again. “Steve, baby, I remember.”

“Bucky, you’re scaring me,” Steve says, quiet, still gently petting Bucky’s hair. And Bucky can see it now, the particular tilt to Steve’s lips and the crease between his brow. The man _is_ scared. 

“The angel—he’s in Soho,” Bucky says. “He’s why that street was destroyed, why we were unconscious. He killed those Hydra agents.”

“You’re not making any sense, Buck,” Steve says, but Bucky knows that tone. Steve’s not quite sure about his own words, not quite committed to himself. He’s lacking his usual conviction. 

So Bucky doubles down. “You know I am,” Bucky says. “You know I’m right. You might not remember everything yet, but deep down, you know.”

Steve frowns and sighs and furrows his brows. Then opens his mouth like he’s about to reply, but the kid’s return interrupts him. “There’s a nurse right behind me!” Peter squawks, bounding over to them. “He’s bringing stuff. Oh, Bucky, you’re awake!”

“Yeah, it’s okay. I’m fine, kiddo. Don’t worry about it,” Bucky says, looking up as Peter kneels down next to him with a stricken expression plastered across his face.

Still, Peter starts stammering out apologies, then the nurse arrives, and then Bucky gets carted up to medical despite his protests. It takes him a while to convince them all that he’d just had a flashback—a normal occurrence for him once upon a time, though it hasn’t happened in over a year. He ends up having to lie to the medical personnel, tells them he suddenly remembered a battle during the War. The doctors and nurses buy his lies, though Steve only frowns. 

_He knows me too well_ , Bucky thinks.

~*~

It takes Bucky two weeks to convince Steve he needs to fly back to London.

It’s two weeks in which Bucky remembers more and more. He remembers the bookshop the angel came out of, and he remembers the actual blast, the raw power contained in such a seemingly small, unassuming man. He remembers being on the ground unable to move properly, not able to feel his legs, his metal arm nonfunctional. His assault rifle has been blown out of his hands, nowhere to be found. 

Steve had been dead. He remembers Crowley saying as much— _“Nah, he’s gone. His neck’s broken. But look at his uniform, does it not look very familiar?”—_ and there’s some part of Bucky that can’t quite wrap his mind around that. Can’t even accept it. Because he spends his days with Steve. They talk and laugh, play and tease, then usually laugh some more. And when they make love in the evenings, Steve is warm and fond and so _alive_. 

But Steve had been dead just a few months prior. Until Crowley—a _demon_ —had raised him and cradled him in his ebony wings. 

Bucky had shot at them, had actually hit the angel. He remembers the blood on the angel’s trousers; and who knew angels bled? And he remembers Crowley’s unholy anger over it, remembers Crowley whirling around on him, all the eyes and the black wings on full display. 

But after being shot? The angel’s reckoning was to heal Bucky and comfort him, not smite him in his wickedness. 

Bucky wants to speak to him. Look the angel in the eyes. Find out his name, if he has one. And ask him why…

_Why did you spare me?_

He tells Steve that he doesn’t have to come. This is Bucky’s undertaking, a _mission_ so to speak. But Steve insists on joining him. Bucky can’t tell if it’s because he feels he needs to be there for support, or if it’s because he has questions of his own. Bucky thinks it might be a bit of both.

The bookshop is easy enough to find with a bit of digging. Bucky remembers the attacks being centered in Soho, and a bit of poking around on the hotel Wi-Fi uncovers news articles about the attacks. A certain street is mentioned, the destruction described as a bombing, though the miraculous repairs occurring after remain unexplained. 

Bucky has a feeling he knows the explanation.

A.Z Fell And Co, the shop in question, is dark and unwelcoming from the outside. It makes Bucky think of Crowley, and he wonders if this is where the demon lives, if the building is radiating some sort of unholy aura from his presence. He and Steve stand in front of it for several moments, just staring, before Steve asks, “Are you sure this is it?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, nodding.

Steve sighs. “Okay,” he says, then reaches out and tries the door handle. Bucky’s stomach ends up in his throat for the briefest of moments, before the door fails to open. Locked. Steve continues to try in that instinctive way people do, as though the second or third time they pull the door will open. Of course, it doesn’t. 

So Bucky reaches out and knocks instead, his metal fist loud against the wood. “Hello?” he calls. “Is anyone there?”

“Terribly sorry, but we’re closed!” comes a voice from inside. Bucky recognizes the voice as the angel’s. “Come by again tomorrow!”

Bucky’s about to turn and leave, try again tomorrow as suggested. Sure, he’s not one to be cowed, but this is an _angel_ they’re talking about. He’s not about to disobey. Except Steve apparently has no qualms about it; he reaches out and knocks again, _hard_ , and calls, “We’re not here to shop. We just want to talk.”

“Steve,” Bucky hisses, tugging on the man’s arm. “Come on, we’ll just come back tomorrow.”

“What?” Steve says, seeming horribly confused.

“We’ve got a hotel room. One more day won’t kill us,” Bucky reasons.

Which is when the door bangs open in front of them, almost hitting Steve square in the face. They both stumble back, and Bucky looks up to see—oh God, it’s real, it’s all real, he’d still sort of been hoping it had all been a dream or some vision conjured up by his broken mind… 

But Crowley is standing in the open doorway. Sunglasses are hiding the inhuman eyes that Bucky has seen in his dreams, but it’s definitely him. Tall, skinny with sharp features; dressed in all black save for a blood red scarf slung haphazardly around his neck. His hair is longer than Bucky remembers, almost as long as Bucky’s own, but Bucky supposes when you’re a supernatural being, laws of human hair growth probably don’t apply.

“The man said…!” Crowley snaps at them, sneering, though he’s interrupted by Steve.

Sweet, stupid Steve.

“You…” Steve breathes, only affirming what Bucky has been suspecting—that Steve remembers more than he’s been letting on. 

And everything else happens so quickly. Crowley’s expression melts into one of bewilderment, while Steve shoulders his way up into the demon’s space, grabbing Crowley by the lapels and shoving him into the shop. “Steve, no!” Bucky cries, following quickly after.

The door slams shut behind them all, seemingly of its own accord.

“What did you do to me? To _us_?” Steve snarls in Crowley’s face. 

“Pardon?” Crowley asks, deftly removing Steve’s hands from his coat and easing Steve a step back. As if Steve isn’t strong enough to lift an airplane.

Bucky swallows.

“You, I _saw_ you,” Steve tells Crowley. Then, gesturing back at Bucky, “ _He_ remembers.”

Crowley’s quiet. It’s difficult to gauge where he’s looking between the glasses and the dim light inside the bookshop, but Bucky decides to explain himself on the off chance the demon is expecting him to. “Something happened here a few months ago,” Bucky tells him. “I keep remembering…”

“What in God’s name is all the commotion about?”

And then Bucky sees him again. White-blond, short, a little tubby, and righteously angry about all the hubbub. At least, until his eyes land on Bucky, and then his anger melts away into gentle comprehension.

“Oh, my…” the angel breathes, trailing off.

“I told you this would happen,” Crowley snaps, looking back over his shoulder where the angel has emerged from a back room. “You said _Oh, no, dear, that’ll never happen_ ; but look! It’s Mr. America and Metal Gear Solid.”

“Crowley,” the angel scolds gently, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Bucky. He just stares with something like awe, before he eventually takes a few more steps forward and says, “I am quite glad to see you both well, after everything that transpired. I’m sorry again. I didn’t know there were—what is the term? _Friendlies_ , I believe? I didn’t know there were any friendlies on that street that day…”

Crowley gives a brief huff of laughter. “It’s a wonder you’ve never discorporated yourself with that flaming sword,” he comments. Then, to Bucky and Steve, “We’ve been out of the business for a while, if you can’t already tell.”

Bucky’s not sure what this means, but he doesn’t question it. Meanwhile, Steve growls, “ _What_ is going on?”

The angel nods after a moment and offers, “I’m sure you didn’t just drop by from the States for a visit. You must have questions.”

Bucky nods, hand on Steve’s forearm to keep the man from doing something stupid on impulse. It’s funny how nearly a century later Bucky has the same gut instinct as always: protect Steve from anything and everything, including Steve himself.

“I’ll make some tea,” the angel says, turning away from them and heading back from where he came.

“Americans drink coffee. They don’t drink tea,” Crowley tells him.

“Yes, they do,” the angel sighs.

“Bucky prefers coffee,” Steve says, and Bucky can’t tell whether he’s just talking to cover his nerves or whether he’s trying to be contrary. He squeezes Steve’s arm in warning anyway.

But Crowley says, “Then he can have some coffee.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “I can drink tea. Don’t go through any trouble.”

“Nggk,” Crowley says, waving his hand at Steve. “That one’s breathing because of me. You really think coffee is going to be a trouble?”

And no, Bucky supposes not.

~*~

The four of them sit down in a cozy back room, and the angel plies them all with little sugar cookies and honied tea. Though Crowley lazily waves his hand at Bucky’s teacup, and when Bucky takes a sip, he tastes dark roast coffee, lightly sweetened. Absolutely perfect and delicious.

The angel introduces himself as Aziraphale; and Bucky suddenly understands the shop name. A.Z Fell and Co. Clever. 

Though it’s then Bucky realizes he’s still just _assuming_. These two could be just like him and Steve, simple science experiments. Maybe that was the only reason Hydra had been trying to get to them. And so he asks, “When I saw you at first in that street, you were both… Are you two really…?”

“An angel?” Aziraphale finishes.

“A demon?” Crowley says simultaneously.

Both nod.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve murmurs, then seems to realize what he’s said. He covers his mouth with one big hand, and Bucky can’t help but laugh even as his insides are squirming with nerves.

Aziraphale and Crowley both chuckle.

Bucky stares at the two for several moments; they’re both sharing the same loveseat, Crowley sprawled out and taking up more space than seems possible, while Aziraphale sits primly in his corner. Finally Bucky takes a breath, and asks, “Why?”

“Pardon?” Aziraphale asks.

“Why me?” Bucky says. “I mean, I get Steve. But why save me? I deserved to be left there to die.”

“Buck, no,” Steve breathes, reaching over to grab Bucky’s thigh. Bucky stares down at the carpet between his feet, feeling his eyes filling with tears.

“It was my mistake that put you down,” Aziraphale says, seeming utterly confused by the question. “It wasn’t your time to go.”

“I didn’t deserve…” Bucky begins, but Aziraphale cuts him off.

“I’m sorry about your arm,” the angel continues, gesturing toward the offending appendage. “I’m no good with all those fancy electronic things…”

“Understatement,” Crowley comments.

“And I didn’t know how to even begin to fix it,” Aziraphale continues. “But I see it’s been repaired. You humans are so industrious.”

Bucky looks down at his robotic hand, flexing his fingers with a quiet whir. 

“Wasn’t his time?” Steve speaks up, leaning forward in his chair. “When you looked at us, you knew we weren’t supposed to die yet? You know _when_ we’re supposed to _die_?”

“No, not exactly,” Aziraphale says.

“Your aura is still bright,” Crowley says. “You’re not finished here yet.”

“Both of your auras,” Aziraphale says, smiling wide.

“No,” Steve denies. “We aren’t SHIELD anymore. And I’m through with being _Captain America_. I’m done…”

“And Is that all you feel you’ve accomplished, hmm?” Aziraphale interrupts. “The only meaning in your life, all that you are?”

Those words shut Steve up immediately, and his eyes are drawn to Bucky like a magnet. Bucky sighs, wanting the floor to swallow him whole under Steve’s gaze.

“I didn’t deserve to be spared,” Bucky tells them. Tells them all, including Steve. Because maybe Steve’s forgiven him, but he needs to remember what Bucky’s done. Who Bucky really is underneath it all, regardless of what Steve desperately tries to tell him.

“Pardon?” Aziraphale asks again, frowning.

“He still thinks he’s damned,” Crowley says, gesturing idly. Aziraphale’s expression becomes even more pinched.

“You can read our thoughts?!” Steve squawks.

“No, no. But I’m a demon. I can _feel_ his guilt, stifling, it’s like smoke,” Crowley says. And Steve is staring at Bucky again, heartbroken. Crowley continues, “You aren’t one of Hell’s, you know. Your soul is _not_ damned. Neither of yours are. I’d be able to see it.”

And that seems impossible. If Heaven and Hell are actually real, as they apparently are, there is no way that Bucky is deserving of peace and rest after death… “You’re lying,” he accuses.

“You’re calling me a liar?” Crowley asks.

“You _are_ a demon,” Aziraphale comments, grinning as though at some private joke.

“You,” Crowley says, jabbing a finger in the angel’s direction. “You are not helping.”

Aziraphale nods in acceptance, sobering, and leans toward Bucky. “You begged for my forgiveness in that street. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” Bucky answers.

“Buck…” Steve murmurs.

“And you remember what I told you?” Aziraphale asks.

Bucky nods, but Aziraphale continues to stare at him expectantly. So he murmurs, “You said I’d already been forgiven by those who matter.”

“And he was right,” Steve says with conviction, reaching to grab Bucky’s hand and entwine their fingers like lovers. Bucky can feel tears threatening to fall, and he tries to pull his hand away. _Don’t,_ he thinks. _Don’t hold my hand, not in front of the angel._

“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” Aziraphale says, as though he knows what Bucky is thinking. Or maybe he can just read Bucky’s embarrassment. “Your love for each other is pure. The Almighty smiles upon such care and devotion.”

Steve takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. Bucky can practically hear him thinking… _But we’re queer._

“You know, I felt guilt once, too. Over what I felt, who I loved,” Aziraphale says. “But then I realized that we are not so different. Everything they tell us—it’s all lies. He was an angel once before, after all.”

Bucky eyes Crowley, a puzzle piece he hadn’t known was missing suddenly sliding into place. He’s not sure how he didn’t understand earlier. _Angel_ , and _dearest_. “You both…” he realizes aloud.

“Really, Buck?” Steve sighs. Bucky hears it for what it is. _Please, have some tact_.

Crowley chuckles, and says, “Well, I certainly don’t stay for the décor.”

Aziraphale tuts at him, while Steve squirms in his seat. His teacup looks so small in his big hands. “But I thought,” Steve begins. “In the bible—Sodom and Gomora—men not lying with men…”

Crowley sighs dramatically, somehow flinging himself further into the couch. Aziraphale glares at his partner. Meanwhile, Bucky says, “And you had the nerve to _Really, Buck?_ me…”

At least Steve has the decency to look sheepish.

“No, it’s alright,” Aziraphale says, earnest. “First, we are not actually men, just in men-shaped bodies right now, though I doubt that’s what’s actually troubling you…”

“Yeah, I saw all of the… _not-man_ ,” Bucky comments, gesturing idly. 

“Mmm, sorry about that,” Crowley says, not actually sounding all that sorry. “Usually seeing even a glimpse of my true face causes you humans to faint. But you...? Nggk.”

“It _was_ quite interesting,” Aziraphale agrees.

Bucky shrugs in affectation. “Eh, me and Steve? We saw a guy peel his face off once.”

Steve wrinkles his nose. It’s one of those things they still bring up sometimes when they’re playing 30’s and 40’s nostalgia. _Hey, do you remember that time…? That was the most disgusting thing…_

“Oh, Red Skull?” Crowley asks, smirking. “What a nutter.”

“Wait, you knew him? You…” Steve begins, horrified expression turning furious. “Did you _help_ him?”

“Woah, there, pump the brakes,” Crowley says, flinging his teacup in the air. Somehow, none of his tea spills. “I took a nap in Germany and woke up in the middle of the Second World War. So I screw around a little with a few idiot spies, and suddenly I’m the infamous A.J. Crowley! It’s not my fault Hera came looking for me.”

“I believe they called themselves Hydra, dear,” Aziraphale says. “And I doubt they would have come looking for you had you not bolstered the rumors that you were, in fact, a demon.”

“Semantics,” Crowley says. “I mean, something horrible occurs, and suddenly a demon is responsible. Like that time I was in Spain, boozing and sexing the locals. Then suddenly the Spanish Inquisition is my fault—you realize I was drunk the entire time.”

And Bucky’s not sure what’s going on, but he recognizes the look on Aziraphale’s face. It’s the same look Steve gets on his face when Bucky starts going off about something stupid: somehow both annoyed and fond at the same time. 

“So you never helped them? Helped Hydra?” Steve hedges.

Crowley snorts. “You know we blew up a whole street of those fuckers, right?”

“I believe that was me, dear,” Aziraphale corrects him. 

“Semantics,” Crowley repeats.

“Hydra did this to him,” Steve says, quiet, looking toward Bucky. “He fell from a train—I let him fall from a train, and…”

“Steve,” Bucky tries to interrupt, not quite believing they’re about to do this again, but then…

“I know,” Aziraphale says, while Crowley nods. “Though I doubt that you allowed him to fall; your dedication to each other is beautiful. It warms this whole shop.”

Bucky doesn’t know how to respond to that, except to confirm, “He didn’t let me fall.”

Meanwhile, Steve asks, “You _know_?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Crowley answers.

“We can see your auras,” Aziraphale explains. “Like I said, your auras are bright; you still have a lot of years left to live. And your auras are filled with love, overflowing with it. But you’ve both been scarred in your own ways, moreso than most. It’s very obvious.”

“Oh,” Steve says, while Bucky looks at the floor. He wonders exactly how much the angel can see.

“I know you still fear them. Demon, and all,” Crowley says, tapping the snake marking on the side of his face. “If it will ease your mind at all, we’ve poked about looking for more of your Nazi extremists. Couldn’t find any.”

Aziraphale nods in agreement. “Yes, no bit or bob from them. We had to be sure, though. There is a wealth of knowledge in this shop that they needn’t have in their hands.”

“That’s… That’s good,” Bucky says.

“That’s why they were here in the first place,” Steve realizes aloud. “That’s why you killed them!”

“Tactical genius, he is,” Crowley comments. Steve glares, while Aziraphale gives Crowley a warning look.

“Yes, I… I’ve never actually killed humans before,” Aziraphale says. “But it was becoming a do-or-die situation. Or at least a do-or-disaster situation.”

“You did the right thing, Angel,” Crowley says. Then, gesturing at Bucky and Steve, “And we fixed the mistake. Just look at them, up and walking and talking. No lasting damage.”

“I never meant to hurt you both. I swear it,” Aziraphale says, earnest.

Bucky nods. “I know.”

“I do love getting to see my miracles afterward, though,” Crowley says, obviously eyeing Steve up and down. “There’s just something about it, huh, Angel? Eh, you probably see them so often you’re tired of it, but it’s still a novelty to me.”

“You never get tired of it,” Aziraphale says, looking at Bucky with an impossibly soft expression.

Steve reaches over and takes Bucky’s hand again, squeezing it gently.

“Hey, how about we go out for a nibble,” Aziraphale says, standing. “Maybe a drink or two. It’s getting to be that time.”

“Oh, we couldn’t impose,” Steve says, but Crowley’s already standing up.

“We insist,” Crowley says. “You can keep up your twenty questions at the café.”

~*~

They’re on the plane back to New York when Steve reaches over and takes Bucky’s hand.

“It was interesting, what they said,” Steve says.

Bucky nods. They’d spent hours at the small café at the end of the street, eating and drinking and talking and laughing. The angel and the demon had refrained from getting drunk once they realized Steve and Bucky physically couldn’t get drunk; a sweet but unneeded gesture. 

And wouldn’t you know it? Demons and angels can apparently get drunk, but the serum keeps both he and Steve from even getting a buzz.

Aziraphale and Crowley told them so many stories, the things they’d seen and done in their long lives; and Bucky always thought he and Steve were impossibly old and out of place. He can’t imagine how those two feel decade after decade, century after century…

Millennia after millennia.

“Everything they said was interesting,” Bucky answers Steve, because it truly was. All these stories straight from the history books, witnessed by angelic and demonic eyes.

“What they said, though, about two men being together,” Steve says. “About the words in the bible being, what did Aziraphale say exactly? _Twisted by unholy men_?”

Bucky nods in agreement. “Yeah, I know.”

“I mean, I knew that you couldn’t be wrong. Not _you_ , Bucky, my best friend,” Steve says. “But the things you made me think about and want, you know? I was raised fucking Catholic, Buck.”

“Steve, I know. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Steve just nods, squeezing Bucky’s hand. Bucky looks down to where their fingers are entwined; Steve is sitting on his left side, and his skin look pale against Bucky’s black metallic digits. And abruptly, the words from that dream come back to him…

_But the spark he lights inside of you isn’t lust. When you go to bed with him, it isn’t an act of iniquity. And deep down, you know this._

“I think,” Bucky says. “Deep down, I knew. I always knew.”

“Hmm?” Steve asks.

“You were willing to die for me. You threw down your shield for me—multiple times,” Bucky says. He meets Steve’s gaze, so open and adoring. “How could something that true be a sin?”

Steve opens his mouth as if about to say something, before just shaking his head and leaning in. He kisses Bucky soft and sweet, leaning his forehead against Bucky’s after. “I love you so much,” he says, breath warm against Bucky’s face. “You know that?”

Bucky smiles. “Yeah, I know. But maybe you can remind me once we get home?”

Steve chuckles low and naughty, pulling away. “Oh, baby, I’ll remind you so damn good.”

Bucky grins, laying his head down on Steve’s shoulder. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

And when Bucky drifts off before touching down at JFK, there are no eyes or wings in his dreams. Just Steve, and peace, and love.


End file.
